Wistful
by the-speed-reader
Summary: And he does, peeling the white tape off her hands and brushing his thumb with hers. Their pinkies link for a moment and she catches her breath, her heart skipping a beat.


_Why hello, SkyeWard fandom. It's little old me, back with a new story. Hope you guys like; this one took me a bit and Ward might be a tiny bit out of character, but that's what fanfiction is for._

_Anyway, really excited about the next episode! I saw pictures on tumblr of Skye and Ward KISSING._

_Yup._

* * *

"_He looked so lost, so soulful, so lonely. I wanted him to kiss me now. I wanted to let him know I was his for all eternity._" -Ellen Schreiber

* * *

It was three in the morning, with the endless darkness seeping though the windows and collapsing around her as she throws one sharp punch after another, her fist connecting with the punching bag in a way that should _not _make her feel good. Sweat was pooling at her temples, dripping down her face and slipping down her neck before continuing below. Her body was a living, breathing mass of heat at the moment, something that distracted her from her ever cold sheets that awaited her in her small bunk; it was late outside, an event that had never distracted, never bothered, her before, but now it somehow seemed to shatter through the windows and overwhelm her.

There was only light on, a small little fixture that had been installed if only for the purpose of keeping agents from running into the doors. Her punches came harder, faster, as her feet remained planted firmly on the cold steel floor. Her gaze was determined and her eyes were beyond threatening; she had to hit something. She's gotten that urge when she woke up not forty three minutes ago (she's been counting) and found her sheets soaked with sweat and her heart rate beating quite faster than normal.

Normally, when she slept, the nightmares came. They overwhelmed her with the only purpose of scaring the hell out of her; and they always made their goal, well enough so she was shaking far into the next morning. But this time was different. She only remembered glimpses of the ever present silver screen that haunted her unconscious state. The slivers that she had remembered, however, gave her chills and frightened her to the very core.

She punched harder now, shaking the bean bag with every intent of knocking it off it's tiny silver hook; but she wasn't that strong, not by a million miles, and she knew it. She would never be that strong - she was simply a hacker plucked off the street by _chance_. The only reason she was on this plane, the only reason she was now a SHIELD agent was because of _chance. _If she hadn't approached Mike Peterson, she wouldn't have been taken. She would have been interrogated. She wouldn't have met _him_.

_He wasn't gonna stop, Skye. Not until you were - I wasn't gonna let that happen_. Those had been his words to her - both in reality and her dream. He shot a man in cold blood because he _threatened _her. What would have happen if she really had died? What would have been the fate then?

She didn't know how far his feelings extended for her; her own emotions, however, were hard to keep tightly in check. Every time she passed by him, every look over her shoulder, every hidden glance - those were kept deeply hidden in her soul, flashes of memories that could disappear every time they went on a mission. There was always a danger of dying and there always would be. Someday, they would all die. But the likelihood of it happening sooner than later was much greater in their line of work.

He told her, once, that he wished he had stop Coulson from recruiting her. She had felt the nearly always present sense of guilt before he had truly explained his words. _You would be safe_, he had sworn, _and away from all this madness._

_No, _she had argued back. _I would've been in deeper trouble_.

She couldn't change the past; she didn't know what would have happened had she never even heard of SHIELD or aliens or monsters. She didn't know what would happen had her parents not been killed. She didn't know what the future would have been like had she been _normal_. Maybe she'd be graduating at a top college right now instead of putting her life on the line every time she stepped into the streets.

_Maybe_. That was the one word had constantly filled her mind, wondering the possibilities of what ifs. But she had been innocent and naive then; she knew now to live in the present while it was possible, because death was just around the bend.

She gritted her teeth and punched harder, nearly shattering her knuckles. She drew back with a hiss, and it was then she realized that her hands were _bleeding._

"Hell," she growled, biting her lip. But just as she was about to look for a first aid kit there was someone else holding her hands up for inspection, brushing fingers over her swollen knuckles.

She looked up at him, her eyes narrowed. Her hands jerked away; she didn't want him touching her, not after her nightmare. "What do you want?" she snapped, and felt rather angry when he didn't recoil. In fact, the opposite. He looks, honestly, a bit worried.

"Skye," he says, his voice rushing over her like water rushes over a stone. "Calm down. Lemme patch those up."

And he does, peeling the white tape off her hands and brushing his thumb of hers. Their pinkies link for a moment and she catches her breath, her heart skipping a beat. But he only links their hands and leads her carefully over to the wall, where he motions for her to sit. She complies and he taps a few buttons against a keypad on the wall before pulling open a panel, revealing a first aid kit.

His hands are surprisingly gentle as he takes care of her hands, wrapping them quickly, yet still seemingly doing it slowly. She watched him as did this, her eyes catching his with every third movement he did. He was on his knees as he did this and she was sitting criss-cross, unable to keep her gaze away from him.

When he was done, however, she broke away, turning to stare at her hands. "Thanks," she muttered, moving them around slightly. They were sore, but most likely would be better by the morning. She made to stand then. "Night."

But instead of moving towards her bunk like her legs were supposed to carry her, a hand wrapped around her wrist stopped her for a moment. She looked down at him, and it was one of worry. "Rookie," he whispered. "Sit down."

And so she did.

His hands moved up her arms, making to frame her face. She bit her lip as his thumbs brush against her flush cheeks. "Ward -" she starts, but is silenced by his mouth slanted over hers.

She returns the kiss almost immediately, her brain, quiet honestly, almost shutting down. Her hands moved up to bury themselves in his hair and his hands moved to her neck, stroking her collarbone. She gasped with her bit down on her lip; not gently, but not harshly either.

When the kiss ended, she found herself knee and knee with him, with one of his hands spread loosely on her hip and the other tapping a rhythm along her neck. She blinks at him for a moment, unsure of what to do, but then he captures her lips one last time. She savors it, closing her own eyes.

When she opens them, he's breaking away from her, his expression more wistful than anything. "Goodnight Skye," he murmurs.

She watches, mutely, as he turns away. Her head is spinning and her senses are overloading with only one thought: _what the hell just happened?_

In the morning, she isn't sure if its a dream. But then she sees her bandaged hands and the looks he gave her over breakfast this morning, and she's positive it _wasn't_.

* * *

_What'd you guys think?_


End file.
